


Lunch Break

by hellhoundsprey



Series: lunch!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Dean is discussed but not executed, Bottom Sam, Cock Cages, Dean Has an Eating Disorder, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Obsessive Dean, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rough Sex, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sexual assault by a stranger (none of the tagged characters), Top Dean, Top John, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Smith successfully received custody of Sam two years ago. But even after coming of age, Sam can't exactly leave.





	Lunch Break

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. I couldn't _not_ give this a sequel. The verse is complete with this part; I said it all. Enjoy. (It's your usual mess, please please please mind the tags.)

Sandover is an assortment of very important, very dead-inside, very wealthy people. From floor four on, at least. Sam wishes he could sip the cheaper coffee with the techies instead of sharing espressos with the suits. But this is good for his resumée, probably. And it's what Dean wants, anyway, having him around as much and close as possible. Sam knows that if he wants to start college next year like they discussed, he better not ruin this for him.

“Hi. May I come in?”

“Sure, yes.”

“Uhm, Mr. Smith was asking if you...”

“Ah, yes. Wait, I have them right here. Sorry.”

“No problem, sir.”

Sam idles while Mr. Winchester digs through the mountains of files on his desk to get to the right ones. Holds the one wrist with his other hand, because putting your hands into your pockets is unprofessional, kiddo.

“Here we go. Good as new.” Mr. Winchester has the kinda smile that makes you both warm inside and want to run away. Dean said that last year he lost a lot of weight due to Dean's recommendations and won't admit the last part of that truth. Says he's a dick, Sammy, watch your back around him.

Sam receives the papers with a close-lipped smile and a, “Thanks, sir.”

“How long're you gonna stay with us again?”

“Another seven weeks, sir.”

“Wow.” He laughs, sits back in his chair. “I hope they're at least paying you well for being his bitch like that. Just kidding,” he adds upon Sam's ever-more stretched smile.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“See you around, kid.”

Sam is six foot two now and people still don't take him seriously. Call him kid, kiddo, hey boy. He's given up on it for a while, now.

~

“Oh.” Kathy twists her wrist, smiles at her watch and then Sam. Kathy smiles at him a lot. “I'm afraid we're all out of time, Sam. Any last words for today?”

Sam shrugs, smiling just as politely as her. Half-swallowed by the velvet sofa, half-finished glass of water nearby.

“Okay,” she says. She doesn't wear a wedding ring. She reminds Sam of his mom, which she doesn't know, and Sam doesn't like to ask himself if it's of help or not. He thinks he's doing okay, lately. “I'll see you next week then, alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Have a good one.”

“You too.”

Sam shrugs himself into the wool coat Dean got for him, wraps the mohair scarf around his neck, leaves Kathy's office.

Thanks to Dean's dedication, Sam doesn't fit the crowds anymore. Gives shy-boy smiles at giggling girls and women and pretends not to see the boys, the men. Offers his seats to the elderlies and shoves up the Mark Jacobs glasses, curls cold toes inside Berlutis. He makes faces for babies and babbles to toddlers until their parents (single or not) start initiating conversation with him, breaking the spell.

Sam gets off on the same station, every day, always at five thirty except on Thursdays, like today. Walks the same street corners, thanks the same three doormen for letting him in from snow storm to the warmth of ten households not even knowing each other's last names.

Red carpet halls, elevator boy. They're just about to start changing from classic to Christmas music.

On weekdays, Dean never comes home before eight. Always works late, always hits the gym right after. Sam wipes his shoes clean after coming in. Hangs the coat on his designated hanger, folds the scarf away into the same drawer he took it out of this morning, will take it out of tomorrow.

Despite the chores that has to be done in between coming home and Dean coming home, these hours are Sam's favorite. Alone, in peace. Dean's paranoia hasn't yet gone as far as installing cameras. Sam is free here, can line the tasks up however he pleases. Has a half an hour here or there, depending how much work is to be done.

Work isn't bothering him. Scrubbing the bathroom, the kitchen, dusting the few shelves—these things are satisfying. There's a beginning and an end. A before and an after.

Sam pulls Learn Python The Hard Way from his share of the bookshelf, flips it open to the cut-out middle and places today's cab money inside.

The kitchen can always use a wipe. He could air out the bedding, call the dry-cleaner if they handed in their laundry yet, then call the reception, ask them to bring it upstairs. Sam watches some TV while crunching through some fruit, some low-carb crackers.

Seven PM. He should start with the bathroom crap.

Sam undresses in the bedroom. Folds pants and socks and hangs away the tie where it belongs. The shirt and undershirt go into the laundry, boxers too. He takes his iPhone with him so he can stream some podcast to keep his thoughts away from the matters at hand.

Functional Geekery is on during the thorough shower, and it's on while Sam examines his reflection closely. Plug out, enema, plug back in. Turns, naked, in front of the mirror. Scratches at zits, pads them down with disinfectant. He checks his nails and trims too-long cuticles.

Sam pulls at skin, makes a face. Some hairs are growing back too fast. It doesn't look too pretty but he's not allowed to shave them; it would fuck up the next waxing.

Sam opens a fresh bag of gummy candy. Watches himself chew, absently, still all ears for the podcast. Watches and pets his stomach. He doesn't finish the bag.

Today's seven-forty text says: The Cowboys jersey. So Sam puts that on.

“Hi.”

“Hi baby.”

Sam takes the grocery bags, the kiss on his mouth. He hauls the lot to the kitchen and unpacks while Dean does his do, goes to sit down to wait on one of the barstools until Dean joins him.

“What're we having?”

“How hungry are you?”

“Mh. A seven, maybe.”

“H'okay.” Dean starts digging out tools, always a little disoriented, exhausted in the evenings. “We, uh—how 'bout... I think I got everything for lasagna. How 'bout that.”

“That, uh...”

“What?”

Quiet, “That takes a while, doesn't it?”

“So you wanna eat _soon_.”

“Yeah.”

“So more an eight than a seven.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you're fine. It's fine. Uh—” A yawn. A vague gesture to the spread-out produce. “Then, uh. Pasta? With some kinda spicy sauce? We've got tons of veggies.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

They always have tons of veggies.

Dean is a great cook. So good that Sam is a hundred percent sure it's wasted on him, but Dean insists he loves doing it, it's fine, you can't eat that take-out crap twenty-four-seven. Dean has all sorts of kitchen gear and machines, all so shiny-new looking Sam would swear they've never been used if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes.

All Dean needs for his own meals are the food processor and the juicer, anyway.

There's always more than enough to eat. Pointing it out to Dean is useless. Sam's passed on to having leftovers in-between all meals just so nothing will go bad in the gigantic fridge.

Sam's stuck with conversation since he's not allowed to help. Throws out smalltalk like, “How was your day?” and, “Got a cool new project in sight?”, gets back even smaller responses. Monday To Friday Night Dean is not very much alive above the belt.

Sam limits himself to one and a half servings per meal. More than enough, really, but dinner is always out of line because Dean insists—that Sam must still be hungry, can always have another bite, c'mon, it's not worth keeping that little leftovers.

There's so much cheating and pleading involved that Sam ends up nauseous, stomach bursting or not.

It's one of these days where Dean got what he wanted. Sam can barely deter Dean's attention from rubbing his stomach.

Rubs his knuckles across the not-quite-there-yet bulge in Dean's slacks, repeats, “You wanna go to bed yet?” and gets a faint, “Hm,” in return.

Sam tries, “I'm tired,” and has his jersey rucked up, closes his eyes when Dean scoots down to mouth at him.

Feels him kissing, tonguing. Feels fingers slipping lower, curling around his caged cock, brush along his balls.

Again, “Dean,” but opens his legs wider. Lets Dean's fingers slip down his taint, pet around the plug.

“Hm?”

“I'm tired.”

Dean comes up for a kiss, nodding. Slurs “Yeah,” and, “let's go to bed, huh?”

Dean plays with the plug while they're brushing teeth. Sam's got one hand braced on the sink, standing tall so he's slightly above Dean's eye-level. Moves with him just so, refuses to watch their reflection in the mirror. He's dripping onto his toes.

Dean takes him from behind, hard enough to really make it smack when he slams in, hard enough Sam can shut off and enjoy the ride. Can close his eyes in the dark and not see him.

~

When he first started here, Dean warned him that his schedule is busy and that he can't afford fuck-ups. Sam has ever since then been doctoring around with Sandover's software, making it easier to operate for him. Mostly the search and rewrite functions, really. A small simple script he runs on the side. Nothing crashed and nobody fired him yet, so it should be fine.

Punctuality is a key factor to Dean's routine: he asks for coffee, has toilet breaks, asks for Sam to check out room fourteen forty-four—at the same times every day. Everyday is Groundhog Day.

What changes are Dean's suits, ties, suspenders. He always smells the same, uses the same cologne, the same shower products.

Someone rattles on the locked door and Sam half-chokes on Dean's cock. Dean chuckles, pulls him in despite him bucking, until Sam's nose is pushing into his pubic bone. Says, “Shhh,” and, “Don't worry.”

Sam knows where the archives are and that they're well structured. He knows there are supply rooms, more than enough. He can't come up with a purpose for this room except for having sex in it. Which he thought was a joke, when Dean lured him down here the first time. That Dean would go this far. Risk that much. Degrade Sam that much.

He waits five minutes after Dean has left, locks the door behind himself, slips the key back into the drawer of his desk. Puts on his “please don't ask me anything, I'm just an intern” face because the guy who's already been in the elevator with him is wandering up to him, sticks his head inside after reading the sign.

Dean made clear that he doesn't want to be interrupted unless the building is literally on fire.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

The guy squints at the sign, at Sam. “I'm supposed to, quote, report to HR, unquote.”

“Oh, that's, uh. That's on seven.”

“...And I am...?”

“On five.”

“Oh. Oopsies.” His absolute lack of sincerity and hair gel makes Sam join his sheepish smile. “Sorry, dude.”

“No problem. It's a maze.”

“That it is. That it is.” The guy steps in, hands in his ratty jeans, sweeps a quick look around the anteroom. “Wow. How'd you land this deal, huh? How much are you paying them?”

Sam keeps his laugh low. “I'm, uh, I'm just lucky.”

“And I'm jelly. Jesus. Plants! Your own copy machine! You're living the life, man.”

“Cubicle?”

“Cubicle.”

“Shit.”

“You tell me.”

Smith's door bangs open and both Sam and the guy startle upon Dean's furious face, the barked, “What the HELL is going on here? I told you to keep it down! Jesus fuck.” He glares at the guy who backs up quicker than Sam can even try to deescalate the situation, and Dean squints after him before slipping back into his office.

Sam exhales sharply, rearranges his glasses on his nose. Turns back to his PC.

The guy sticks his head through the open door again, stage-whispers, “I hope they spank me,” and leaves Sam behind with a smile on his face.

~

“I wanna take you out for dinner tonight.” Dean zips his slacks back up, clips the suspenders back in place. “Wherever you wanna go, huh? What do you say?”

Sam hums into the crook of his arm.

“That's not an answer.”

He hears Dean walking back to him, running his hand from back of knee up his ass, up under his shirt. Stretches just a little, knows Dean is watching.

“Wherever you wanna go, baby.” Muttered sweet enough he really might have lost track of how long it's been since he let him go see his mom. “We can catch a plane, spend the weekend over in L.A., if you wanna? Get away from this shitty cold?”

A rumble. “You just wanna stare at my ass in a speedo. Creep.”

“You're not wrong. But consider: margaritas. At the pool.”

“I can't drink yet.”

“Virgin margaritas. For my good little boy.” Sam feels him smiling against his ear, his warm coffee-and-nothing-else breath. “Maybe Santa's coming early, huh?”

Sam's heart kicks right down between his legs. He murmurs, “Really?” and hopes he doesn't sound as desperate as he very suddenly realizes he feels like.

“I dunno. Maybe? If you wanna.” Dean laughs upon getting the puppy dog eyes. He presses his flat palm down over the plug nestled deep in Sam's ass just to get Sam sighing. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Thank god it's only a few more hours.

It's worse enough answering calls and emails and making errand runs with a fresh load up his ass. But the thought of getting his dick sucked for the first time in weeks, that's a distraction alright.

It's stupid. Because on the one hand, he really, really doesn't want it off.

The constant urgency, the denial. The always-on-edge kinda tingle, the rush. It's easy to keep going.

But, god. It's been way too long.

“Any nice plans for the weekend?”

Sam smiles into Mr. W's files, back turned, hip cocked. Says, “Nah. Not really. You?”

A sweet silence Sam knows oh-too well, and his smile widens, unseen, because he's in control of this. Hears, eventually, “Ah, y'know—the kids. The wife. The usual,” and gives an understanding hum that comes very close to pity.

~

Sam's seen the ring, the cliche box containing it stuffed so deep into the socks drawer he first expected a jack-in-the-box to jump out at him, like a “hah, that's what you get for snooping around”. But, no. Just a simple golden band. He's slipped it on; a little big, maybe Dean's thought the last growth spurt would pay off more.

Sam thinks about that, definitely dizzy and maybe that's how it feels to be high. Can't let his own cock out of sight, how it ticks in time with his pulse on top of his belly.

He's almost forgot how big it gets.

Dean's making urgent love-sounds lowering his face over it, nuzzling it, eyes closed, because this is important for both of them.

Sam is babbling even prior to Dean flicking his tongue, to Dean dropping his jaw and just sliding down on it. Feels the tears coming when Dean swallows around most of the entire length. Sammy's grown, again.

“I-I'm gonna, oh... _Oh_...”

Dean doesn't pin his hips down. Holds still, lets him fuck his throat in thoughtless, uneven strokes. Sam watches him, the complete serenity on that face, eyes closed, cheeks hollowed. Sam's up on his elbows and it would be so, so easy to grab Dean by the hair, force him down on the last two inches he only seems to be able to take with Sam pushing it in. Hold him there, make him take it.

“I, I—I wanna...”

It's right there on his tongue.

Dean would let him. Would enjoy it, even.

Maybe that's why he can't say it.

Sam's aware of how empty his ass feels, how he's wildly leaking pre-flight love into sheets someone will change tomorrow morning while they're downstairs, enjoying breakfast. Is clenching, involuntary, because you only have so much control over your body after six weeks of denial.

Dean would let him blow down his throat, up his ass, anywhere, and Sam is gasping, “S-stop, f-fuck me, please, I need...”

Dean's pretty-boy eyes flutter open, wet and cold, and he comes up with a growl when Sam doesn't change his mind.

Sam rolls onto his stomach and shivers on the dull throb of his cock smacking the bed, his belly. Moans upon Dean hitching him up by the hips because the weight of his hanging erection is so overwhelming, so out of the ordinary, that Dean pushing into him is a mere distraction. There is no pain.

The pace is immediate and rough and takes what was left from underneath Sam's feet, sweeps him right off and he grunts into the pillow, his arm, the air where he lets his head hang limp between his shoulders, in time with Dean fucking his orgasm right out of him.

Some of it hits his chin, his chest; drips down his thighs, and he sobs with every pulse. Howls when Dean starts to really pack it in, goes up on one knee and is all that holds Sam up anymore, hands anchored into his hips hard enough to really make it hurt.

Dean rubs up his back, cool-down. Snarls over Sam's soft crying, reaches a nipple and plucks at the barbell. Sam squirms for that, full-body, and reaches back for Dean's shoulders when he lets himself drop on him, flattens Sam out, falls right back into his rut.

Sam kicks out, because it hurts, because it feels so good, because Dean's too deep and doesn't bite his throat hard enough. Because his just-done cock is force-humping the mattress and he can't, he can't.

A rip on his piercing before the same hand slams down on the side of his ass; the few square inches not covered by Dean, and he screams.

“You need me to tie you down?”

Sam wails on another hit, same spot, and nods frantic, nose blocked.

Dean looks out-of-body, up on his knees. He's half-gone, mouth wet and pink and fat like his cock; forehead shiny with sweat, ribs so so prominent in the beautiful early-evening light.

Slurs, “What do you need, huh,” with Sam's wrists in a one-hand grip, free hand coming down over Sam's ass until Sam has to start squirming. He gets up then, and Sam hears the zipper of their luggage, rubs his snotty face into the bed, and shudders his sigh with his hands tight on his lower back.

~

“You could just ask for it, y'know.”

Dean's knife stops cutting. He doesn't look up from his steak.

Sam smiles, wineglass in hand but more drunk on the ache in and around his ass, his neck. The throb of his cock in his slacks.

“I wouldn't mind. It would be fun, don't you think?”

Dean sighs, chewing on his left side only, dabs the napkin over his spotless mouth and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“What was that?”

“What _ever_ ,” barely any louder.

The last time Dean got him drunk, Sam ended up with Dean's hand up his ass. But that was two years ago.

Tonight, Sam is helping himself. The waiter brought two glasses anyway, and watching Dean eat solid food is too stressful to handle sober.

So—anyway. “Bet it feels awesome,” thought out loud, just a tease. He's not sure how much he'd have to drink to actually go through with it. But it's affecting Dean, ramps him up alright, and the thought of it _is_ nice.

Sam feels light-headed. Pleasantly full, and Dean has a nice flush on his face, heat outside and AC making it chilly in the restaurant, making Sam's nipples stand so hard that his piercings hurt all anew. God, they should probably have put the cage back on, if only for the dinner.

“I bet you got fucked a whole damn lot, back then. When you were younger. Bet you were everyone's dad's fucking wet dream.”

“Sam—”

“Weren't you?” He blinks, murmurs his, “Sorry,” when Dean pushes his unfinished meal away, tosses the napkin onto the table.

Dean crosses his arms tight, nips, “Are you done?”

“I didn't mean to.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Here, have some more, why don't you. Brat.”

“I'm really sorry.”

Sam's glass fills. Dean orders some kind of ice cream dessert for him and lets Sam cup his hands in his own. Scowls, pretending to look around the restaurant as if he was waiting for someone instead of sitting in the middle of a candlelit dinner with a too-soon overgrown child.

Sam has another glass of wine. Another.

The night air is too thick. Feels like someone is sitting on Sam's chest. He plucks his bow-tie loose, lets Dean carry his jacket. Bumping into Dean earns him a shoulder to rest his head on, an arm to hide underneath. He watches the endless hurry of people from here, held safe and not-really-there. They're looking at them funny, probably think they're either related or a couple all the while they're neither the one nor the other.

Maybe a little bit of everything is true.

Dean parks him in the curb, slips inside the liquor store. Sam watches the neon lights across the street, the colorful passersby. Gets giggles, and smiles, and he presses his back into the nearby brick wall to go a little more invisible in his thousand dollar suit, thousand dollar shoes.

Dean can drink a whole lot before he feels anything, he says. Looks like it too. Lets Sam try some when he notices how curiously he's eyeing the bottle and rubs his back when he chokes on it.

Sam knows they're back in the hotel room because it smells so nice in here. A little dusty, and the light is so soft.

He traps Dean between the door and himself without really meaning to. Lap-sucks at his neck, feels Dean's pulse here, rabbit-quick, and tastes how hot his skin is. He sighs upon getting his slacks zipped open, his cock being grabbed, squeezed, milked.

Slurs meaningless little things, eyes closed. Arms so tight around Dean's neck but if he lets go he's gonna fall on his face.

Hears, muffled, “You really wanna do it?”

“I'm. I.”

Sam has a hard time pushing himself straight but refuses Dean's help, mainly because he doesn't want him to stop jerking him off. He doesn't exactly know how they make it to the bed, how he ends up landing on his back on top of it. But Dean is coming right after, hovers over him, keeps stroking him, kisses him.

Sam's eyes fly open all the way when Dean squeezes his cock like he wants to break it in two.

Hears, “Goddammit,” and, “You listening, huh?”

Says, “I, I dunno.” Opens his legs some more (where did his pants go?), runs his hands up Dean's tiny tiny waist.

Dean licks his lip. “We can. If you want to. I just never thought...”

Dean looks scared.

Sam feels too-big on the outside. Like there's a whole lot of himself he's not able to even fill.

“I'm, uh... We don't, we don't have to. It was jus'a silly idea. I dunno.” Dean kisses him. “I dunno.”

More kissing.

Dean starts stroking his dick again, and Sam sinks deeper into the bed. Wipes his stupid hair out of his stupid face; rubs his thumb along Dean's cheek, the corner of his mouth.

Dean brings them close, forehead to forehead. Until Sam can feel his lashes tickling him.

“I wouldn't mind.” Sam rubs their noses together. “I dun mind. Do you wanna?”

“Only if you wanna.”

“S'my last v-card, I dunno. You still gonna love me?”

“What, will I still love you after you've fucked my ass?”

“No, after I—y'know.” Frown, squint. Where'd his glasses go, jeez. “Ah, nevermind, fuck... Shit.”

“What is it?”

“No, nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, okay? _Nothing_.”

Dean hauls him back around when Sam pretends to start fighting, pretends to roll to his side, away. Sam grins, blinks sweet upon Dean grabbing and pulling him by the hair. Throat presented, Sam feels empty.

Slurs, “What?” Gropes hard between Dean's legs. “You gonna fuck me or what?”

Dean never hurt him until Sam started asking for it. Felt bad for it for awhile, took some time to let it sink in and have it feel normal. Told him it's weird, why would you want that, I dun wanna hurt you.

It's just sharper, and different. Or, maybe it feels better because it's not what Dean wants.

Sam didn't cry, at first, because he didn't want Dean to know that part of him. Then, because he was afraid he'd get mad if he knew. At this point, he just doesn't want him to stop.

~

Sam wakes big-spooning him. Has a mild headache, a seriously dry mouth. Thinks, for a moment—tries to remember if they ended up doing it. Grinds his morning wood into Dean's buttock, absently.

He reaches between them, strokes his index over Dean's hole. No, nothing.

Sam sighs, utterly relieved. Nuzzles back into Dean's hair, hugs him tighter. Keeps rolling his hips; it feels nice and he's too lazy to actually jerk off. Dean wakes not long into it, disoriented hum and groan and then a more pleased sound upon his brain coming online.

Croaks, “Mornin' there,” and Sam joins in on the smile he feels against his forearm.

Sam rolls them over; Dean buried under him, sleep-pliant. Sam feels his face heating up, stubbled cheek digging into where it's bedded on his arm. He has him in a loose choke-hold, could hang off that neck if he wanted.

Just a lazy drift. He's starting to get wet, smears it around Dean's always-perfectly-waxed gash. Dean's only made him eat him out once, way back.

Sam licks his mouth. Goes to scoot up on his knees so he can thrust in wider motions. Looking between them he can watch his cock slotting perfectly, how it catches on Dean's tailbone on the push up.

Hears, faintly, “Fuck,” when he teases the crown against Dean's hole with the slightest pressure. He chuckles when Dean tries to raise his hips, slips his cock back up.

He does tighten his hold on Dean's throat, now. Mutters, passingly, “I still dunno what to get you for Christmas.” Rubs his mouth behind an ear, along a shoulder. Continues, “I was thinking,” whilst humping Dean's ass, “maybe another piercing. On my cock, maybe. Or a tattoo. Your name on me, huh?”

Dean listens silently, breath going harder. Sam digs his knees deeper into the bed.

“A trampstamp, maybe. Or on the inside of my thigh.”

“You fuckin' lil tease.”

“Hm?”

Dean grunts, frustrated, and Sam laughs. Rolls off of him completely and makes a show of crossing his arms behind his head, spread his legs out. Dean glares at him for a moment until he breaks, sits up to turn and put his mouth on Sam's cock.

Takes him all the way down, and Sam's hips give an aborted hitch, slot him deep, and he smirks.

“Or, maybe, I'll just let you have it, huh?”

Dean doesn't answer. Comes up for air, one hand wringing up-down while he nurses on the head. Pops off just to tell him, “Gotta put that thing back on soon, you're talking nothing but bullshit. Fucking dick,” even though that's the last thing he wants and they both know that.

Dean makes sure to never spill a drop. Drinks Sam so dry he swears there's negative pressure all the way down to his nuts. There'd be even less pounds on the guy if he wasn't feeding off Sam every other time.

~

Dean nudges his shoulder (not too gently) when he catches him zoning out with his eyes glued on that flock of bikini girls. Sam sips his soda then, and pretends not to see Dean glaring acid at him behind his Ray Bans.

“It's definitely going back on tonight.”

Sam shrugs. Refuses to adjust himself in his swimming trunks. Peers at the girls, again, and concentrates on one of them who begins to giggle once she notices. Only faintly hears Dean hissing, pulls the other way when he's being grabbed by his shirt.

“Do I need to put a leash on you now? Get it together. Jesus Christ.”

Sam lets Dean buy him whatever Dean wants to see him in. Waits patiently, in stores, in changing rooms. Twists and turns and tries on. He doesn't check himself in mirrors, and Dean doesn't pretend that Sam's opinion matters.

Sam makes a face at the LV store sign; Dean pulls him inside, still.

Sam mutters, “I don't _need_ another,” and Dean gestures for another four for him to try on.

The worst about the watches is that Sam can't let them disappear without Dean finding out eventually. That they're several months' worth of food and rent, bedded on velvet in their dresser.

He demands to spend the afternoon at the pool just to piss Dean off. Stuffs the unwilling meat of his dick into those tiny fucking speedos and leaves his shirt unbuttoned so he can flash his pierced tits at the entire lobby, the crowd already gathered at the hotel pool. He tosses his shirt into Dean's general direction and jumps into the water, not looking back.

He swims laps until he's shaking from exhaustion. Ignores the various stares as he climbs out, tosses water out of his hair and eyes. Barefoot up to where Dean's nursing something watered-down looking, fully-clothed in the shade. Gets a towel handed without comment. He wipes his face with it before flinging it right back. He bends over Dean's lounge chair—dramatically, unnecessarily—to rummage around in their bag. Uncaps the sunscreen, pouting with lazy eyes, standing straight and tall and he knows what he looks like, and he hopes the elderly gay couple two chairs over is gonna fuck each other's brains out to the thought of him for weeks to come.

Doesn't bother to lower his voice asking, “Can you do my back?” and seats himself on the very edge of Dean's chair, hands him the lotion without waiting for much of an answer.

He lets his head hang, elbows on his knees. Watches his toes curl, uncurl, on the now-wet stone tiles. Dean's hands are cold from holding his drink. He claps him on the shoulder once he's done, and Sam doesn't thank him.

Dozing on his belly, Sam smiles into his own armpit upon Dean's, “He's not even old enough to drink that, Jesus Christ, take that away.”

~

“You're all burnt. Idiot.”

Sam yawns, knuckles his eyes. Goes to fish out a fresh pair of boxers from their luggage when he gets tugged backwards by his tee. Slurs, “What?” and gets hugged from behind, Dean so warm and wiry he can barely stand it. Dean pets at his waist, his hips. Spares one hand to get a hold of his cock and starts stroking him. Sam hums into the room, Dean's mouth drifting behind his ear, down the long line of his neck. Dean has insisted they leave, get ready to head out for dinner. Yeah, sure.

“Maybe the one with the sound, tonight?” Sleepy-voiced, already oozing at the tip. Passive arms hanging, hips tilted forward and out.

Dean sighs into his ear, stops his hand, lets go. Tells him, “You're a freak. You know that?” and Sam laughs.

~

He wants them all to know. To see. Casually puffs out his chest, fidgets on the chair. Lips at straws and cutlery and his own hand. Dean hisses at him to, “Stop that,” when he just starts playing footsies with him.

Hears, “You're gonna get us kicked out,” and yeah, no shit. Fuck you.

“It hurts.”

“Well, you asked for it.”

Sighed, “I'm so _full_ ,” and he doesn't have to be looking at Dean to know how his face looks like, or how hard his dick must be.

Their waiter strolls by and Sam offers a drowsy smile, ensures that, “Everything's great, thanks,” and wonders what it'd take to make Dean fuck him in the restroom of this place.

Dean tells him he's crazy, shut up. But Sam has to piss, one way or another, and leaves for the bathroom on his own.

The tiny screw comes undone easily enough.

“Fuck.”

Sam's fingers are shaking where they're extracting the metal rod from his dick; he can feel his own sweat running down his temples, has to bite his lip because someone else just entered the room. The urge to relieve himself multiplies with every withdrawn millimeter and with the bulbous end rushes the first gush, another hissed, “Fuck!”

“Hey, you okay in there?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Sam listens for the guy finishing up, leaving. Sighs, still uneven in his knees. Flicks the piss/lube from his fingers so he can wipe the back of his hand over his face without getting it even wetter.

The push back in has him leaning back against the stall's door, head lolling back; just feeling. The lack of lube is compensated by the stretch of the rod having sat in his dick nice and snug for a good two hours before. Sam has to wipe tears away it's so overwhelming.

He screws the security back on, zips his jeans up. Huffs a last deep breath in his solitude before unlocking the stall, stepping out. The sinks are in a little nook outside the actual restrooms, still secluded from the rest of the restaurant. The music is louder here, a subtle stream of violins Sam can't even hear he's floating so high. He splashes his face with cold water, rinses his hands extra-intently, so invested in his task that the hand on his ass comes straight out of nowhere.

It gropes him so hard he's half-tumbling into the sink dick-first, gasps in confusion first and whips his stare to lock eyes with the stranger in the mirror, the huge plastic cock pushed even deeper into his guts with the pressure of fingertips bearing down on the flared base—before they disappear, together with the guy, and Sam is left behind with the tap still running.

“What the hell took you so long?”

Sam slumps down on his seat, eyes down on the table, the dessert menu in Dean's hands. Shakes his head, “Nothing. I don't want anything else.”

“Hey, did something happen?”

“No, I—” Sam frowns, snatches the menu from Dean, slams it face-down on the table. “I said I don't _want_ any!”

“Okay, okay; tone it down, okay?”

Sam overhears the part about people staring, just mutters, “Can we leave? _Please_?”

“Sam, what the hell happened?”

“I just wanna leave.”

Dean pays while Sam is already hurrying outside. Hugs his middle, peels at the dry skin on his elbow; nervous glances, back pressed to the building. Promises, “I'm okay,” when Dean joins him, asks him again, but doesn't let him too close. They walk back to the hotel in silence.

Back in their room, Dean asks, “Are you gonna tell me at all?”

Sam answers by locking himself in the bathroom.

He's cold down to the bone by the time he gathers himself up from the floor. Feels the bite of his bladder, the toys stuck inside of him. Has his eyes on the white of his knuckles, hands on the edge of the sink, holding on.

He sits down to pull the sound and dildo out, to piss. Rinses both toys and leaves them by the sink, unwilling to handle or see them more than absolutely necessary. Their room smells like a bar, and Sam sees Dean idling by the window, the contents of the minibar long empty and strewn in some mock bread crumb trail.

Dean doesn't start his interrogation up anew, so Sam strips out of his jeans, climbs into bed and underneath covers in underwear and tee. Presses his face into the pillow and closes his eyes.

~

The smell of fresh coffee stirs him alive. He peers around what he can see of the room without moving; the doorway, the door to the bathroom, their already-packed luggage.

Sam heaves himself upright, looking for Dean. Finds him looking straight back at him from outside on the balcony, cradling an unreal-white cup in his wiry hands.

“What time is it?”

“No rush. Checkout's not until another three hours.”

“Oh.”

That's enough conversation, isn't it?

Sam uses the bathroom, sneaks to the kitchenette. Raids the cupboards for another cup, prods at the little machine until it spews steaming hot coffee for him. He sips, hips nestled against the edge of the counter, shoulders rolled inwards. Not quite awake yet, and he doesn't plan to change that until Monday.

Hisses, “Don't,” when he hears Dean behind him, twists out of the almost-hug. Almost tumbles, spills some of his drink onto the tiled floor.

“Just don't, okay? Sorry.”

“What did he do to you?”

Sam scoffs, bites a smile into place. “How're you so sure it was a guy?”

“Sam, quit the bullshit. Did you see his face?”

“I'm not fucking talking to you.”

“Sam—”

“What? Seriously, _what_ , Dean, huh? Fuck you. Leave me alone, and fuck yourself.”

Dean does as he is told—in the hotel, the cab, the plane. There's no way Sam is gonna spend the night anywhere but with his mom, at home, period. He hates that he can't say it, that he's so fucking weak to be this dependent on a maggot like Dean Smith.

Dean's not even looking at him.

Sam tries, “I'm sorry,” and when that gets him not even a blink, “No, you know what? I take that back. Fuck you.”

Still nothing, and Sam Wesson might be panicking.

Croaks, “I hate you,” so small Dean might not even hear it all the way where he's busying himself in the bedroom.

~

He knows Mom keeps his letters in a huge box on top of the TV. That they've been read, numerous times—fingerprint-shaped smudges, tea and coffee spills.

He never tells her the real bad stuff, but she knows he's sad. That he misses her—and his room, and their home; what's left of grandma's fine china in half-rotten cabinets, the slick solid gold of her wedding ring on her slim-slim finger—and she says he shouldn't, every time they see each other. First thing she tells him, every time.

“It's better this way.” Strokes his hair and his cheeks and promises, “You deserve to have a good home, baby. I know it's tough. But you're so strong.”

She never said that Dean is a good man.

~

Mr. Winchester's cologne is strongest when fresh, early in the days. Mixes with the absurd amounts of coffee haunting the floors at all times of the day, but never as concentrated, as rich as in the cradle of his coop of an office.

It's an organized chaos in here, even if Dean insists that's ridiculous. That Winchester is useless for any kind of team work, you can't afford to be that much of a dick in a position like his, he's made people _resign_ , Sammy, fucking wolf in sheep's clothing. He offered Sam to call him John, awhile back.

Sam wants to sit in John's lap instead of the borrow-pulled chair so bad he's fucking aching with it.

Leans in close and closer while John explains something Sam will have to inquire about again later because now he just inhales the scent of him, floats with the deep rumble of a voice.

They're almost cheek-to-cheek at this point, and it's so warm here, so close and comforting that Sam thinks he should probably try not to fall asleep.

Novak eventually interrupts them, knocks politely but it's enough to make Sam jolt awake, sit back just a few mannered inches. It's something unimportant, naturally, and Sam breaks into a smile when John rolls his eyes just as soon as the door is closed again.

“He's a good guy,” promises John. “Believe me.”

“How was your weekend?”

“Too short.” John downs what was left in his cup. Cracks his neck, scratches through his beard while scrolling through his emails. “How 'bout yours, huh?”

“It was okay.”

“Just 'okay'?” Sam melts at the sheepish grin, the raised eyebrow. Just a little bit.

Admits, “It was nice.”

“Mh, I bet it was.” Eyes back to his screen, but still smiling. “Ah, to be young again.”

A friendly elbow to John's side. “C'mon, you're not that old.”

“Kid,” John grins, “I could be your daddy.”

~

“He grabbed my ass. I didn't want it.”

Dean's eyes find him beyond his laptop that's perched on his lap.

Sam's looking at the illuminated apple instead of Dean's face and shrugs his shoulders, hands behind his back just so Dean can't see him picking at his nails (he hates that). “I didn't see him there. It happened too quick. He yanked at the plug and then he was gone.”

Dean closes his laptop with a sigh.

Sam repeats, “I didn't want it.”

“Come sit here for a moment, yeah?”

He waddles over, does as he's told. Hands in his lap, and Dean doesn't try to touch him, doesn't reach out, and Sam feels useless.

“I'm sorry I said I hated you.”

“I know, baby. It's okay.”

“You know I don't hate you, right?”

“I do.” Soft nod. “C'mere.”

Straddling Dean's lap is both so much better and worse. Sam kisses him, careful and soft, hands braced on that chest because that's how Dean likes it best; likes him light and tiny and bashful. Likes pretending Sam's still the kid he was before all this.

Dean sighs into the kiss, such a loving sound it makes Sam's skin crawl against his will. Puts his hands on Sam's waist and tells him, “You shoulda told me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I coulda done something. Anything. But not if you don't let me know first, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. I know.”

They're speaking mouth to mouth at this point. Cooing, sweet-talking.

Sam just wants it over with.

~

John's been staring him down ever since the meeting started. Sam didn't think he'd still have it in himself to blush.

Minutes all the meaningless shit Dean dishes out as well as the bored queries, everything, and hopes his piercings are poking his shirt out nice.

“Do I have something on my face?” Whispered, behind a clammy hand, glasses back up his nose.

John just shakes his head no, gives a far-away smile, leaned back in his chair.

Dean never looks at him like that anymore. Like Sam is new, and exciting, and might say no.

John probably thinks he's some nerd-shy faggot kid. That he's got a rich daddy and a Xanax-joyful mom and wears underwear on the regular.

Or, maybe, he knows exactly what Sam is like.

Hard to say which is less humiliating.

“Hey, Mom?”

“ _Hey sweetheart, hi. How are you, baby?”_

“I'm good, I'm fine. How are you doing?”

Sam hopes she can hear him smiling. He can hear it in her voice, at least. Huddled in the farthest corner of the room that still smells like lube and ass, knees pulled under his chin and stupid. He'll have to delete the call from his phone's history before leaving.

“ _I'm fine, Sammy. You know me. Always working hard.”_

He nods. It's true. “You working on Christmas too?”

“ _Yeah. You?”_

“Yeah.” Then, petrified by the silence between them, “I scraped up some more cash, if you need any? If you can come to Kathy's office this Thursday?”

“ _Sammy.”_

“It's about one grand, I wish there was more.”

“ _Sammy,”_ she says again, just that, just his name, and sounds just as tight-throated as he feels like. Sam always was a mama boy.

Sam braces himself before stepping out, sniffles a last time. Locks the door behind himself, as always, walks straight to the elevator, as always. He pushes the call button and waits. The elevator next to his pings open. John steps out.

They lock eyes.

John's elevator closes, and Sam's hasn't arrived yet.

John has his hands in his pockets, left his jacket over the back of his chair (that crinkles 'em, Sammy, I better not see you do that again).

Asks, “Can I show you something?”

He leads the way right back to the room, and Sam feels some more life drain right out of him when John digs around in his pocket to produce another key, just like the one Dean entrusted Sam with.

The one he is supposed to return exactly nine minutes and something-seconds after Dean returned to his office. “I should...”

“It'll only take a minute.”

Sam doesn't want to leave. He really doesn't.

Steps inside behind John and steps aside so John can pull the door closed, and lines his spine up with the wall.

“What is it,” he says. Has to blink, and clear his throat. “What you wanna show me. What is it?”

John turns the key in its lock and thumbs behind him, into the room. “I was looking for something. I think I last saw it over there. You mind checking with me?”

“Uh, sure.”

John leads the way. Moves fluidly, powerfully. He's easily twice Dean's weight (or Sam's, that is), and just as tall. Maybe taller. Doesn't glue his hair down flat like Dean likes to do.

Sam stops just early enough to not bump right into him. Mutters, “Sorry,” and that it's dark, sorry.

“No problem. Over there, I think.”

Sam squints to fathom where John is pointing. Swarms out, intern-willingly as he always is between eight and five. Cranes his neck to see the higher shelves, up on tip-toes.

“What're we looking for, John? … John?”

He's right behind him, then, sudden and warm and suffocating and all Sam can think is that he doesn't want him to hear how loud his heart is pounding right now.

Sam feels a huge, warm hand touching his shoulder, then running down his back. Slow, gentle. Sam tries not to breathe. A second hand then, on the other shoulder, and he feels and hears John leaning in, pulling him back. Gasps, even though all John does is touch their temples together, just holds Sam back to chest, and doesn't dig his fingers in.

It's Sam who turns, hesitantly, awkwardly, and brushes their mouths together. Is the one shuddering first, is the one cupping John's throat with both hands.

John sighs into his mouth like he just sank into a warm bath.

His pulse is slow but hard, right there under Sam's fingers. He breathes through his nose and Sam isn't breathing at all.

John kisses him so slow he thinks he's drowning, falling. John's hands are still there, cupping his shoulders, anchoring him without any pressure at all. So that if Sam wanted, he could writhe out of this.

Sam nudges his tongue into John's mouth and tugs him closer by his throat, and John makes a heartbreak noise.

Sam gets his face cupped, after a while. Feels a thumb running along the cut of his jaw, moving along. Has to swallow when it rubs over his pulse point, his Adam's apple.

John props him up against the shelf, all quiet, focused. Has his eyes mostly closed, in the dark, and Sam feels his breath hitting him right back. Feels watched, pinned, and doesn't dare move an inch, afraid John might take it the wrong way.

Puts both hands on Sam's face now, and Sam just now realizes he's dropped his hands to hold on to John's shirt collar.

John kisses him again; different, this time. More urgent, hungry—like he's intent on crawling into Sam, carve him out.

Sam is on tip-toes again just so John doesn't have to duck so low.

He shivers his eyes open when those hands start pushing down, threaten to cup his chest, until they do. Until the heels of John's hands bump across his piercings and don't stop, drag over them and leave Sam straining into the touch.

John turns his grip so he can thumb at them. Cover most of Sam's ribcage, feel the shudder of his breath.

John tucks his mouth away just out of reach and smiles when Sam's lips keep fishing for him.

Admits, “I saw'em, before. That you have'em.”

Sam can't think. “Didn't see them yet.”

“Well I can feel them just fine.” He circles his thumbs, pressing down. Keeps looking straight into Sam's eyes. Speaks soft, like anyone's gonna hear them in here. “Hurts?”

“Used to. But I liked it.”

“Is that so?”

Sam nods, has to let his eyes flutter closed for a bit. Gasps upon John leaning in, latching onto his neck. Feels one hand straying from his nipple to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, pop them open one by one in quick succession. So easily.

“I'm, I.” Half-swallows his tongue, because John is sucking harder than how he'd tell Dean to do it on any casual Tuesday night.

The shelf groans under the strain John lays on it. Is half-crushing Sam's chest he's crowding in so hard, and Sam is afraid again, small again, holds on even tighter and still for John's bite to his cheek. Has hands roaming his body, slipping over nude skin, circling his waist. John wouldn't have to pull at him to crush their dicks together.

Sam awaits the reaction with bated breath. Breaks into a smile upon the low, “Kinky,” that feels like any other endearment just on the right side of sleazy.

John keeps kissing him, is smiling too. Rocks up into the greedy clutch of Sam's hand on his crotch and snarls through his teeth, eyes falling closed while Sam is watching him intently.

Slurs, “Shit.” Sam feels him chubbing up right then and there, helpless to Sam kneading him expertly. “Shit, you gotta stop.”

“You can come in my mouth.”

John throws his head back in a hoarse laugh. Rubs their foreheads back together, smears Sam's mouth into his beard.

“I really can't, sweetheart.”

“Why not.”

“Not here. God.”

Sam gets his mouth thumbed, the sore spot John sucked on earlier. Gets inspected while he's knuckling John's cock like his pants were already open.

“No. You deserve a nice place. A _bed_ , for once.”

Sam leans into that palm. Rubs his cheek into it like a kitten, mouths at the silken inside of John's wrist.

“Shit,” again. “Okay, no, that's enough. That's all for now, okay? Jesus.” John laughs again, low and honest, and Sam feels stupid, rejected like that.

“I wouldn't mind.”

“Yeah, no. I won't have that. Jesus, look at you.”

Sam is taken in, clothes hanging off him awkwardly. He shifts his hips out, holds his hands behind his back. Puts on the bedroom eyes he knows Dean always likes, and cocks his head to the side. He doesn't know how to do this right. John doesn't seem to mind.

“I need to see you again. Soon.” Hummed, thumb dragging along Sam's chin.

Sam blinks as everything falls back into place. Where they are. Who they are. Murmurs, “I dunno,” and watches John's smile fade. “It's, uh, it's difficult.”

“Why. What's on your mind?”

“...I can't really say it.”

John holds up his left hand.

Wriggles his fingers, lets his wedding ring shift in the lowest of light.

“No shit,” he says.

~

“Did you have a nice day?”

Smith nods, barely conscious, while pouring pasta into boiling water.

Sam sits just on the edge of the kitchen chair, chin in his hands. He's scrubbed extra thorough to get rid of John's cologne, started the washing machine even though it wasn't quite full just yet. Dean doesn't notice any of it.

Dean barely makes it through dinner without dropping his face into his cup. Is too out of it to shovel more onto Sam's plate, and doesn't catch him pushing his food around rather than eating it.

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, Dean is already snoring, face-down.

Sam crawls in next to him. Pets his hair, tucks the longer strands behind jug ears. Rubs along freckled shoulders, nape, until he tires of it. He lies down flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling. It's nine PM.

His right goes to slide between his legs. Grabs himself over his shorts, at first, then slips into the waistband. The plastic prevents most sensation.

Sam huffs. Keeps fondling mostly his balls, rubs his pinkie down his taint.

It's nine twenty when he gives up, and nine twenty-three when he gets out of bed to retrieve the keys from the bathroom cabinet.

He doesn't turn the lights on; doesn't need to. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and he knows the lock just fine. His hearts races nevertheless. Uselessly, since even if Dean _were_ to find out, he wouldn't mind. It's not like anyone is forcing Sam to wear it.

Sam ignores the tingle and swell, washes the cage first and his dick later, stores the separate parts away neatly together with the keys. He pulls his underwear back up and returns to bed. Slips under the covers with a sigh, closes his eyes, hears Dean breathing close-by. He starts with teasing the underside of it, over his underwear. Draws it out, like there are rules. Like he has to be careful.

Fingertips only. Shorts down, one-handed, the head slicking under his nails and against the cotton sheets.

Dean is turning in his sleep, farther away.

Sam hums, thumb tucked up against his frenulum, left hand sliding up-down the shaft.

His legs shudder when it happens. His jaw locks, and he just feels, just falls.

The heat of it fades too soon. Leaves him in a hurry to wipe himself clean with his shirt, to roll over, curl in.

~

Dean asks him if he's okay, the next morning. Sam rubs at his face, indifferent, shrugs. “Yeah, sure. It just bothered me s'all.”

Dean doesn't ask further.

They take turns on the shower, as always. Dean takes over the sink for a thorough shave, his many creams and tonics, his hair. Sam makes sure to towel himself down all the way before hugging Dean from behind, smelling his neck, pressing his hard-on against his ass.

Dean keeps on massaging his forehead. “You need anything?”

“I wanna fuck you.”

“What, here? Now?” Dean is probably frowning. Already in work mode, overwhelmed by the affection, he feels twitchy, sounds rough. “You're being ridiculous. Stop it.”

Sam tells him, “Don't act like you don't want it,” before peeling off of him, leaving him behind in favor of the bedroom, the dresser.

He has to laugh when Dean follows eventually, and, yeah, has his brows pulled together so tight no cream in the world can save him from wrinkles. Sam turns towards him with his tie loose around his neck, tips his chin up in silent command.

Dean tells him, “You're a brat,” as he ties his tie for him.

Dean does his best to not stare at Sam constantly pawing himself in the cab.

Breaks, eventually, “Maybe tonight, huh? If you still want to,” and licks his lip like he's already choking on it.

“Hm. Maybe.”

Stepping into John's office is like entering a different world. A different sphere of reality. Sam feels like crying.

John gives him an approving nod without being pushy, or tasteless, or leering. God, Sam wants him to leer.

Wants him to beg, and pull Sam in, and hearing he wants Sam, needs Sam.

“How often have you done this?”

Dean's motionless on his back, leather shoes pressing around Sam's ears. Dean's smooth, clean, not prepped at all. Sam holds him open, rubs his glans over his hole without much violence.

Whispers, “How many? You gotta tell me, huh,” encouraging and a secret with Smith's eyes tightly shut, his pretty mouth thin and quivering, here in the darkness. The sanctity of their room.

“If you don't talk, I'm not gonna do it.”

“I lost count. Dunno. Shit.”

“That many?”

“Yeah, that many, Sam. You gonna do it or what?”

“Maybe I want you to beg.”

“Shit, I...” Dean's hitching his hips, but Sam doesn't let him have it. Has both hands on those thighs, cock hanging uselessly, wetly. Again, “Shit,” desperate, head falling back, thumping against the metal shelf.

“What's the matter?”

“Just fuck me,” grit-slurred, frowning again, eyes gone, unavailable. “Get it over with. I don't have time for this, I have a meeting in—”

Sam drops him, pulls and zips his pants up, leaves the room.

Dean avoids him, fortunately. Sam stares at Sandover's keyboard, Sandover's monitor, Sandover's email interface. Brings Dean his one PM espresso before starting his own lunch; pulls his labeled containers from the fridge and takes a seat in the tiny kitchen. Every bite feels like a clump of sand adding to the weight in his stomach. He could look out the window, browse the skyline, but he doesn't.

He doesn't register he's not alone until someone touches his shoulder; he jerks away from it before he checks and realizes it's John. Doesn't apologize though, just mutters, “Hey,” whilst turning back to his meal.

“Looks good,” comments John. Sam smells his coffee now, and feels the pull to get up and leave when John yanks out the chair next to Sam, takes a seat. “What's that? Chinese?”

“Just rice. Chicken and veggies. I dunno.”

“Homemade? Wow.”

“It's just leftovers.”

“I didn't know you were some little Jamie Oliver.”

“I didn't make it.”

He feels John looking at him, reading him. Feels the tears, again, and stuffs his mouth instead.

Hears, too-soft, “You okay, kid?”

Sam chews and shakes his head.

“Because of...?”

“It's got nothing to do with you.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Sam takes another mouthful as a response.

“Okay.”

John sits back, cradles his cup in both warm hands.

Sam eats just for the sake of finishing what's in front of him. There's no sensation of hunger, or fullness, or anything. He pushes the empty container away, places the fork in it. Doesn't offer conversation, or eye contact; crosses his arms loosely in front of his chest and stares at the table.

“I was thinking,” murmurs John.

The chatter outside is almost meditative. The even purring from the printers. The gentle laughter on the phones. High heels, and glass doors, and rustling paper.

Sam blurts, “Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“I'm, I was... Sorry.”

“Hey, everybody's got a bad time every now and then. I know I can be a clingy pain in the ass, sometimes.”

“No. No, you're fine, really.” Sam looks at him, now. Can take it, somehow, to watch that smile, the soft wrinkles around those eyes. Swallows, because he's gonna drown. “So, you were thinking...? Sorry.”

“About what we talked about yesterday. Well, _I_ talked, and you said you weren't sure.”

“I _do_ want to.” Feels weak, and heated, and Sam feels his nails digging into his arm. “I'm just... My schedule is real tight.”

“Define 'tight'.”

“I have two hours between work and him coming home. And I can't be late. Ever.”

“Wow,” John laughs. “That's not controlling at all.”

Sam can't bring himself to more or less than a hollow, “It is what it is.” Then, “So, that's what I have. Does that work?”

“Sure, yeah.” John nods, sincerely. “Hotel room usually works best. Wrong name, cash, so they can't trace my card.”

Sam blinks, nods. “Okay.”

“Today? Tomorrow? Next week?”

“Uh.” This is real. Fuck. This is happening. “Sure, whenever.”

John's got a bed smile. “Maybe tomorrow. Sounds good? What, six PM? I should be done by six.”

“Yeah. Sure. Yes.”

~

The Sam Wesson in the mirror looks wrong. Looks like someone else entirely, not like anything Sam remembers.

He brushes his hair back over his head. Plucks at his eyebrows, shaves his armpits. He's neither started his chores (but everything is clean anyway) nor has he dressed (but Dean didn't send a text anyway) by the time Dean comes home. Is sprawled out on the sofa in his sleep pants only, wrapped in one of the softer blankets. The TV is running the news in an endless depressing loop. Sam doesn't notice he's got his thumb in his mouth until Dean taps his hand. He withdraws it immediately.

“What're you watching?”

Sam shrugs.

“Hungry?”

Sam shrugs.

Dean leaves him be. Sam hears him rummaging through the cabinets, preparing and eventually blending his powders. Hears him drinking, by himself, how the cup eventually goes into the dishwasher, and how Dean hefts himself over to him, slumps into one of the armchairs.

Sam squints at him through the barely-lit room. Neither of them really likes to sit in these things; they're mainly there for the look, not the comfort.

Dean has pulled one leg up, barefoot and in post-workout ensemble of sweatshirt and sweatpants, hair disheveled, looking at nothing, head supported only by his hand, tilted to the side like his neck is about to crack.

“I always had a hard time making friends, y'know. I got too close, or was too distant, I dunno. It never worked out. But sex, that was easy.”

Dean blinks, never opens his eyes fully. Can't, at this time of the day. Huffs more than he speaks, and looks so old.

“I'm good at it. I'm kinda attractive. Flirting isn't too complicated, so I did that. A lot. Guys, girls, whatever. It didn't matter. I fucked colleagues, supervisors. I didn't care. I seriously can't remember.” He shrugs, weakly. “Y'know, sometimes I'm in the elevator with a bunch'a guys, and I think, shit. I probably slept with half of 'em.”

Sam curls in a little tighter. “Why didn't you just...stop?”

“What.” Weak smile. “Like that'd changed anything.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“You wanted to know, earlier. An' then I was being stupid, so I thought I'd owe you.”

Some more of a smile, eye contact now.

“However much you are disgusted by me, trust me: compared to what I think, that's nothing. But I want you to know, that...you mean the world to me. I can't even describe it.”

A pause, maybe for Sam to correct him, to approve, but he says nothing.

“I'd do anything for you,” promises Dean, barely-alive.

~

Sam pushes his glasses higher up his nose while the concierge scrolls through the reservations.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Goldblum is already up, I'll get you the second key card. Just a moment, please.”

Sam can't rest his back against the elevator wall. Stands stiff, hands wringing the strap of his shoulder bag. He exits onto his designated floor, finds the room quick enough.

As he enters, John is helping himself at the minibar. His jacket is draped over the back of the only chair in the room, and the air is heavy with his cologne. He must have reapplied it. If he always carries a small bottle of it around? His suitcase is leaning against the desk.

“Hey.”

“Hey, uh, I'll just wash up real quick.”

“Sure, no rush.”

The Sam Wesson in the bathroom mirror is pale-lipped.

Sam strips, washes between his legs, under his arms, puts his clothes back on. John is idling by the window, perfectly calm. The scent of whiskey is crawling in-over them. Sam doesn't want to tell him to put it away, and it's probably too late for that anyway.

“Can I have some?”

John smirks, raises an eyebrow at him despite holding out the glass for him. “Are you old enough for that, young man?”

Sam shakes his head, says, “No,” and lets John put his hand on his hip as he sips. Touches his hand to John's. Rubs a thumb over rough knuckles.

“They're probably thinking we're having a business meeting, huh.”

“Probably.” John's free hand goes to unbutton random buttons on Sam's shirt. “Absolutely.”

Sam places the whiskey atop the table, stands between John's legs and helps with the shirt. Lets John pull it apart, pluck it out of his slacks. Watches John taking him in—the bare chicken chest and the barbells piercing his nipples, juvenile and not sexy at all, and how John can't stop staring at him nevertheless. Like he's never seen something like him before.

“God,” so low and hoarse he might already be sucking on John's balls. “Look at you.”

“It's yours,” he says, stupidly. Feels his stomach flipping on how those eyes dart back up to him.

John's thumbs press over-along the lines of his hip bones. Along the seam of his pants.

Sam's tongue flicks at his lip. “What, uh. What do you want me to do?”

John huffs, smiles. “Don't make me say it.”

Sam shrugs the shirt off completely. Unzips his slacks, lets them fall and pool around his feet. Arms hanging by his sides, Sam closes his eyes, steps his legs apart some more upon John's hand reaching out.

John has warm hands. Rolls Sam's balls, so gently, so affectionately, that Sam goes a bit nauseous with it.

“'M not gonna break.”

John pulls just-so, and Sam makes sure to hiss, let his head fall back. Hears John chuckling, low, “Like it a lil rough, huh.”

“Yeah.” Arms around John's neck. Welcome home, daddy.

Eyes still closed, there is nothing but John's warm hands, John's face tucked against his chest, the scratch of his beard. The scent of his cologne, of whiskey, the cleanliness of the high-class room.

John eventually pets from balls to taint, and farther. Sam tips his hips back out.

Hears, “You like it here?” and answers, “Uh-huh,” like he forgot how to speak already.

He can feel John's breathing getting heavier. Is heating up himself, being felt up. John mouths at one of Sam's nipples upon breaching him just-so, draws a shudder out of him like that. Dean's fingers are slimmer. Smoother.

It burns dry, despite the slow pace. John pulls back soon enough, and Sam feels shaky. Sighs, loudly, on the anew push, spit-slicked this time, and clutches John's shoulders harder. John is still nursing at his chest; Sam can feel the piercing clicking against his teeth.

Two hurt, again, and Sam's hips buck without his consent. He starts, “Uh,” but John shushes him, pets his flank with his free hand.

Sam holds still. His lip aches.

Eventually: “On the bed.”

Sam moves, hands and knees, eyes shut tight. John chuckles behind him, pats his presented ass.

“Not what I had in mind. Scoot a little, alright?”

Sam's face feels hot-numb. He gathers his limbs underneath him, hands in his lap, eyes up on John who crawls next to him, unzips his pants.

John kisses him, open-mouthed. Hears, “You're eager,” and, “Need it that bad, huh?”

He nods, helplessly.

Has his eyes on John's dick now, ruddy and impressive even wrapped in John's broad palm, and reaches for it in instinct. John lets him.

“Bigger than his?”

Sam can't reply. John chuckles, probably takes his silence for an answer.

John guides him to lay down, keeps petting him, kissing him. Holds him and mutters low endearments, meaningless little things Sam decides not to hear. Eyes shut, all his focus lies in his hand.

When John reaches for Sam's cock in return, Sam fidgets away at first, before allowing it. Holds his breath, a little, at first, and John is careful, slow.

Slurred against John's mouth, “I, I wanna...” and a leg thrown over that hip. John gets the idea—steals his free hand between-behind where he's working Sam's cock to get at his ass. Huffs, appreciates. Sam feels him smiling, chuckling.

“Lemme grab the stuff real quick.”

“Okay.”

The bed is instantly too cold, too wide without John. Sam pulls his legs together, ear pressed to the sheets. Eyes the bottle of lube and the bunch of condoms John drops on the bed.

John smiles down at him while he's stripping out of the last of his clothes.

“Now, if you wanna?”

Sam positions himself immediately.

“Jesus.” John laughs.

“What. We're on the clock, remember?”

“Yeah, sure. Jesus.” A sudden clap to Sam's ass. “You're something. I dunno what yet, but you're _some_ thing.”

John burying his face in Sam's ass rushes a massive tingle up Sam's spine, steals his breath. He moans, taken by surprise, John's hands anchored on his hips to keep him right where he needs him, the scrape of John's beard so immediate and so undeniable Sam fails to place it.

John laps into him with intended force, and Sam's face rushes hot.

He feels sick.

“You can take it.”

Two right in to the hilt, gut-punched. Sam collapses to chest and cheek, pushes back into the stretch; three. He winces.

It's been awhile since it last hurt anything like that. He should've worn the plug. Should've not come here.

John fucks him, all strength and drizzles of lube. Sam thinks he's making little sounds, hopes they sound encouraging, sound okay. Sobs, every time John pulls them out all the way, plunges in just a moment after. The burn of the stretch is all he can feel. The heat of his own insides.

The crinkle and tear of the condom wrapper registers halfway, and Sam puts both his hands on his ass, holds himself open and God he still yelps.

“That what you like?”

“Yes, yes, oh—fuck...”

Tears shoot in, he can't stop that. Feels hollow and searing, pulled back by massive hands and it feels like John's ripping him open, carves him out—it hasn't felt like that in ages.

Inch after inch forces in, slippery enough but Sam's not made for this, the depth hits him completely unprepared and it just hurts, it hurts and it hurts and he's quivering, barely keeping his knees under himself.

“Don't stop, don't stop—”

Dean fucks him like that, sometimes. Precise, and mean, and too hard. Is all quiet all calculating, intent on picking Sam apart.

It scares the shit out of him.

He doesn't say another word. Holds still, groans and chokes and doesn't see, doesn't hear, only here for the heavy pounding that's taking his entire body with it, makes his teeth click, his fists dig deeper into the sheets.

He can't say he doesn't like it when John reaches for his cock, jacks him off, gets him off. Can't speak or think at all for a few hellish eternities. John's groans are taking place somewhere else.

The pull-out is, where it should be agony, nothing. Sam can't move, lets John arrange him, flat-down on his stomach, resting. He can't look at John, has his face turned away. John doesn't mind it, catches his breath.

John pets him. Intimately, caring. Rubs at Sam's neck, so quiet and soft again.

Sam insists that he can shower by himself. He washes himself down, towels himself dry. John is halfway through dressing by the time he waddles back into the room, throws him an encouraging smile.

Sam says, “We should do that again. If you wanna,” while slipping into his shirt, throwing a sheepish smile over at John.

Sam gets off on the same station, every day, always at five thirty except on Thursdays, and today. Walks the same street corners, thanks the same three doormen for letting him in from gray clouded cold to the warmth of ten households not even knowing each other's last names.

Red carpet halls, elevator boy. They've been playing Haydn with a passion. Someone's a fan.

On weekdays, Dean never comes home before eight. Always works late, always hits the gym right after. Sam wipes his shoes clean after coming in. Hangs the coat on his designated hanger, folds the scarf away into the same drawer he took it out of this morning, will take it out of tomorrow.

The clothes go into the washing machine, doused in Cilit Bang, just to cover the smell. Sam turns the machine on, leaves it for the bathroom, another shower. The usual products. Quick, effective scrubs. He can't feel much below the neck.

Sam blow dries his hair, slips into clothes. He vacuums the apartment, airs out the beddings on the balcony. He scrubs the sink in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Cleans the toilet, the bathtub, the tiled walls.

Today's seven-forty text says: The Mötorhead tee + white y-fronts. So Sam changes into that.

“Hi.”

“Hi baby.”

Sam takes the grocery bags, the kiss on his mouth. He hauls the lot to the kitchen and unpacks while Dean does his do, goes to sit down to wait on one of the barstools until Dean joins him.

“How was your day?”

“Okay.” Dean is neck-deep in the groceries, barely listening. “How hungry are you?”

Sam lies, “Nine.”

 


End file.
